


Bounce Back

by penlex



Series: Mick Rory Appreciation Porn [3]
Category: DCU, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depictions of Violence (brief and imagined), Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, Rebound Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vaginal Sex, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: Mick Rory has not one single common trait with the late, great Eddie Thawne. Lucky for him, that's exactly what Iris needs right now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> When did Iris get the reporting gig? I don't know. Hopefully I guessed right. Was Mick present when Cisco told Leonard about Barry's identity? Who knows? He was in the scene directly preceding, so for the purposes of this fic we'll say yes. Do I use too many commas? Also yes.
> 
> anyways i listened to yoncé seven times while writing this

Eddie just died and Iris is lonely, yeah, but mostly just incredibly, incontrovertibly _furious_. There’s a violence inside of her that doesn’t belong there, and the more it grows the less she recognizes herself. Obviously she needs an outlet. And Barry is there. And Iris knows he would, you know, keep her some company, so to speak, if she asked. But he’s her friend and she doesn’t want to use him that way. He doesn’t deserve it, even if every now and then that kind of a thought creeps, unwelcome, into Iris’s head. And besides all that, he’s just so sweet, and she knows him so well... It just wouldn’t work between them. Not like that.

On the other hand, Iris has never had a one night stand before. And thinking of having one now, so soon after Eddie, after they spent so long together and she loved him and he loved her so much... She feels guilty any time she contemplates going out to a bar or a club and picking just anyone out. She feels dirty thinking about taking them into her bed, much less into her body. Like a cheater, almost.

With that guilt comes even more anger. How dare Eddie leave her all by herself, she thinks sometimes, and then is sorry and cries into one of his shirts. How dare he leave her, she thinks sometimes, and then isn't sorry and loses control of herself and destroys something, of his or of hers, or once of Barry's. He wasn't upset with her. She hated him a little for it, stormed out and didn't speak to him for the rest of the day, a punishment for the both of them. He and her father both are walking on eggshells around her now, and she wishes she could give herself space too. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the luxury.

Iris goes to a club on a Friday night, wears a tight mini-dress and a push-up bra, and dances with a stranger. She hadn't looked too closely at him, but halfway through the whiskey she had him buy her Iris realizes he has a kind and boyish grin. He probably is a kind and boyish man. Like Eddie, but not, because Eddie is dead. Eddie left behind empty shoes and Iris is so, so deeply _not ready_ for them to be filled. She doesn't want to be near anyone who could ever have even the slightest, tiniest, most infinitesimal chance of doing it, ever. But this poor random club goer who probably just wanted to dance with a pretty girl to kick off his weekend doesn't know any better than to be his kind and boyish self, so the swelling, cresting wave of absolute hatred for him that Iris feels in her gut is entirely undeserved on his part. So Iris gives him back the drink, both of them flustered and uncomfortable, half-heartedly apologizes, and leaves without a backward glance.

Iris breaks Eddie's favorite lamp when she gets home. Stomps around her room like it will help her stop feeling like this, screams into his pillow until her voice cracks and stops. Then she takes a too-hot shower that makes her skin go red, stares into nothingness for hours with a mug of tea she doesn't drink, and goes to bed with her hair still damp. She wakes up gasping and crying and cuts her hands trying to piece the lamp back together in the dark.

She's working the opening shift at Jitters the next morning, hungover more from grief than the alcohol, glad that it's still too early for the rush yet because she's cranky and sore with a scowl on her face and a bandaid on three fingers, when the solution to her problem (though Iris certainly doesn't think that at first) walks right through the door and into the fortuitously empty cafe like he's not highly wanted by the law. The law, as enforced by Iris's father. And sort of her best friend. Which, as far as Iris understands, the man before her knows perfectly well.

"Kind of wanna order a Flash," growls Heatwave as he comes up close to the counter, his body and his presence both taking up much more space than the average customer's. "Kind of don't want you to think I'm makin' a threat." His mouth is crooked in a particularly disreputable looking smirk, and his face seems like the sort that belongs to a man who has never put a genuine smile on it in all his life. Iris knows she should feel frightened, and maybe she does a little and she just can't tell over that ever present anger and grief. He's a murderous arsonist, fine, she thinks, but he can still kiss her baby smooth brown ass. She scowls harder, and crosses her arms at him like she's his disappointed would-be parole officer, if only he could ever earn parole.

"What do you want, Heatwave?" she snaps at him. He doesn't seem put off or angry, or even surprised at her attitude. His smirk even widens a little, but not condescendingly. He must like the moniker. Cisco should probably really stop naming them, if they're all as into it as Heatwave and Cold are.

"Just some coffee," he grumbles, almost patiently. He goes for his back pocket, his jacket catching on his shirt as he reaches behind himself and pulling it tight over the edge of his hip, and pulls out a crumpled twenty. He slides the bill over the counter towards Iris with two thick fingers. "Maybe a donut." Iris reaches across the counter and daintily lays her own two fingers on the bill, her brand new French manicure (retail/spa therapy that didn't work) contrasting sharply with his nails that are bitten off and grubby with what is probably engine oil or gasoline, to fit the theme. He takes his hand away at her first tug on the money, and Iris is left feeling inexplicably unsatisfied, so in a pique of petty rage she pockets Heatwave's twenty with a curl of her lip and tells him he can go somewhere else.

"Jeez, _Princess_ ," he snarls right back at her. "What died in your yard this morning?"

Iris could proudly say, before this moment, that she had never before in her life blacked out. Not drunk, not with rage or fear. But now, with Mick fucking Rory taunting her about death in a coffee shop, Iris's vision hazes over with bright white static. With a shriek, a sound she wouldn't recognize out of herself if she'd had the wherewithal to hear it, Iris launches herself over the counter and swings her best right hook at Heatwave's jaw. It lands on him good and solid; his teeth and her knuckles both crunch, and his head swings to the side, his hand coming up to cradle where a bruise will definitely be forming.

Now, that fear Iris hasn't been feeling should really land on her all at once. She just hit a known killer in the face, very nearly unprovoked, and he is turning back to face her with the kind of slowness that surely can be nothing but a threat. It's very likely that he will hurt her. But Iris's wires must still be crossed, because she does not feel scared, though she should be terrified to her bones. Instead, when she thinks of the violence he can and probably will bring on her, Iris finds herself _wanting_ it. She wants the chance to defend herself against him, to lose her head and kick and scream and bite and claw at him. She wants to dig her nails into his skin, to slam her heel into his ribs, his balls, his face. She wants to fight with all she has, and take this man three times her size down onto the floor. But Iris is left unsatisfied again when Heatwave only blinks at her, still holding his jaw.

"Somebody die?" he asks. His voice is still a rough growl, but he's pitched it lower now; the smooth rumble of distant thunder instead of the crude, insistent roar of a bike engine nearby.

"Screw you," Iris says past the tightness in her throat, because she has no reason to answer him and he has no business asking. Heatwave finally takes his hand away from his face to shrug, the stiff fabric of his jacket pulling taut at each huge shoulder.

"Fair enough," he grumbles. Iris wishes he would do something bad or say something rude so she could hit him again. He doesn't, so she has no choice but to behave like the lady she is again and put her feet back on the floor where they belong. With a deep, weary sigh Iris pulls the twenty back out of her pocket and opens her register, preparing to count out change.

"What do you want?" she mutters bitterly, stuffing the bill in the proper place.

"Medium hazelnut coffee, black," he says right away, rolling with the metaphorical punches just as easily as he had with the momentum of the literal one Iris had thrown at him. "And, uh. You got those French things?"

"Crullers?"

"Yeah, those."

"You want plain, maple, or chocolate." Heatwave's lips thin as he presses them together and his eyes narrow, staring through her. He looks angry, but by context clues Iris figures he's just thinking it over. Finally he decides, "Chocolate," and Iris rings it up.

"My fiance," she blurts before she has a chance to think about it as she's gathering up Heatwave's change. He hums at her, not needing to ask for clarification. "He was nothing like you," she adds harshly, and he snorts, rolls his eyes as he takes his money.

"Lemme guess," he drawls. "He was better in every conceivable way."

Iris can feel her nose wrinkle up in a snarl as she hisses, all teeth, " _Yes_." Heatwave does not appear to be impressed, perturbed, or insulted in any way. He only meets her eyes, his heavy lidded with an uninvested sort of disdain, and he _does not care_ , for all that he seems to accept this as the truth. And it is, Iris realizes with a sudden sense of clarity. It is the truth (as far as Iris knows, and hopefully will ever know). Mick Rory and Eddie have absolutely nothing in common at all - not in personality and not in looks or language.

 _That_ is when Iris starts thinking about him as the solution to her problem.

Iris sets the flavored coffee to brewing and looks him over head to toe while the percolator burbles in the background. He's handsome, in an unpolished sort of way that Iris has never gone for before. But she can't deny the hard planes of his body she can just make out hidden underneath his soft t-shirt are appealing enough. She likes his voice, at least right now, the way he sounds like he couldn't be gentle if he tried - and if he did try, he'd fail. The growl is probably affected, at least a little, but Iris doesn't care. It's working for her.

The percolator dings to let them know his coffee is done, but Heatwave must feel the tension that's begun to build between them, because when Iris doesn't speak or move neither does he.

"Come to the back room with me to get your donut," she says finally. He glances pointedly at the chocolate glazed French crullers clearly available in the display case right in front of him, but doesn't argue. Instead he raises one eyebrow at her before throwing a leg over the counter with ease. He stands in front of her then, with nothing in between them, and he seems both incredulous and challenging. Iris chooses to ignore the former.

She leads him into the back, and has the impression the whole way that she can feel his body heat even though she can tell he's not following her that closely. She selects a chocolate glazed French cruller from the bakery shelves with her bare hand and dumps it into a logo'd paper bag, then turns with it to face him.

"You didn't bring me back here for a donut," he says. Iris doesn't answer, but she tosses the bag onto the prep counter anyway, because they both know he's right. He nods along with the action, takes a telegraphed step forward.

"This was a stupid idea," Iris says, but her heart isn't in it.

"About that," Heatwave rumbles, back to that distant thunder. "What _was_ the idea?" For all that she very much wants to - and knows that she's going to - go through with it, Iris can't bring herself to say to Mick Rory that she wants to fuck him rough and mean because _he_ is rough and mean. So instead she just starts taking off her clothes. He watches her with clear enjoyment, but doesn't follow suit.

"Hate sex?" he asks, still testing for the parameters of the situation before he really involves himself.

"Shut up and take your pants off," Iris snaps impatiently, and finally - _finally_ \- Heatwave gets with the stupid program. He's fully naked already by the time she has her bra halfway down her arms, even though she started before him, and he steps up into her space boldly and lays his hands on her as soon as they can reach. One hand covers nearly half of her face and almost all of her neck, rough calluses and scars getting tangled in her hair. Heatwave uses that hand to bring Iris forward, to tilt her chin up and cover her mouth with his. He tightens his fingers in her hair and tugs, gently at first, and then more firmly when she reaches up and rakes her nails over the burn scars down his arms, letting out a growl or a moan or maybe a little bit of both.

Iris breaks the kiss and pushes him back, and he goes. Then she pushes him harder and he goes down, onto the floor where she wanted him before. He lies on his back in the nest of his discarded clothing, leans up on his elbows to watch her slip out of her panties and toss them. Iris takes a moment to look over Heatwave's body again now that there are no clothes in the way. He really is just as big as he looks fully covered, broad and stocky, with muscles, big bones, and a thin but noticeable layer of fat to round it off. His burn scars go up from the back of his hands to the crests of his shoulders, and there's one curling around his side and his hips and down the other thigh past his knee too, an old tattoo peaking out from the edge of it on his torso now melted into something unrecognizable. The cock jutting up from between his legs matches the rest of him perfectly: thick and hard.

When Iris has looked her fill she straddles Heatwave's hips, lets the wet heat of herself rest against him in a tease, and tells him, "Like a fight." He grins wolfishly, like that's all he's ever wanted and right now Iris is more than happy to provide. With a gleeful snarl, Heatwave grabs her around the waist and rolls over on top of her to press her down with his weight into his shirt and jacket. Surrounding her like this, he smells unexpectedly good, like used up matches and woodsmoke and something spicy-sweet. Cinnamon, maybe.

Iris knows she has no hope of manipulating Heatwave with strength, even if he plays along, as precedent (how weird is it that there is any) tells her he will. Instead she just picks a spot and bites down as hard as she can. Heatwave roars in her ear, but it's not overly loud so Iris figures he's playing to the audience she's providing him with. The part suits him well, which is probably why Iris suspects he reprises it every time he gets arrested. Iris lets go of her mouthful and ducks her head down to drag her tongue across a nipple, a surge of arousal unfurling between her legs when she feels the forked edge of a burn scar cutting into his areola. She settles in right there and _sucks_ , and Heatwave makes a much more genuine noise that shoots heat deep inside her. He pulls her away by her hair when he's had enough, tugging her up so that he can get his mouth on her too, and she makes sure to dig her nails into him on her way. He chuckles breathlessly, having fun getting hurt.

After Heatwave has left a few bruises across her chest with his teeth, Iris loops her arm around his and yanks it. She knows she has next to no real effect, without the training or the brute force to put behind it, but he goes with that direction, falling to the side as if she unbalanced him. She elects to pretend she really overpowered him, or at least took him by surprise, and puts herself on top again. Heatwave produces a condom out from absolutely nowhere (why did he have one with him going to a coffee shop at the ass end of the early morning?) and holds it up, raising his eyebrows in question. Rather than give him a proper answer, Iris grabs it out of his hand and rips it open to put it on him herself.

Heatwave is... a very large man. It's not that any of Iris's past boyfriends have ever been particularly small, but Heatwave is, well. Proportional. Iris strokes him in her hand a few times before she puts on the condom, enjoying how hot he feels, how he jerks against her palm when she scrapes the nail of her thumb _this_ close to his slit. He lies flat on the ground, his hands loose at Iris's hips and sighs open-mouthed and rough at the ceiling as she plays with him, his eyebrows pinching together in pleasure over his closed lids. Iris looks away from Heatwave's face, back to his cock in her hand, now covered in semi-transparent red latex, the unkempt wiry brown hairs around it. Yeah, unpolished handsome describes him well.

Iris plants her hands on Heatwave's solid chest and leans over him, her hair cascading into his face, to bite at his open mouth. He rumbles his approval and cups the back of Iris's head with both hands, unnecessary as that is seeing as how he could do whatever he wanted with her with just one. She likes the feeling of his thick, rough fingers running through and catching in her hair. When he tries to slip her his tongue again, she bites it and pulls away. Yet again, he doesn't seem put out, just following her lead without needing direction. It kind of makes her wonder how many lovers he's had to have such natural chemistry with a near stranger, or if he learned that skill more from working with partners in crime. His eyes look like they're dancing as he rolls his hips up into her, making her bite back a moan when his covered cock rubs against her, as if he saw her question in her face and is giving her the unambiguous answer. The implicit knowledge makes Iris hot and impatient, so she just as unambiguously takes Heatwave's cock, lines it up just right, and sits down on it. He cries out, or growls, or maybe a bit of both, and tosses his head back, the tendons along his throat drawing taught and pulling his wide collarbones into relief, sweat beginning to collect in the tiny valley between them. Yes. Very handsome.

For Iris's part, she bites back her own cry, more interested in hearing him. He's just as hot inside her as he was in her hand and she can feel her eyes fluttering at the heat and the stretch. They want to close at the sensation, but she wants to keep them open so she can watch him moving under her. The overall experience is different than those Iris has had in the past. Sure she's done the cowgirl or whatever you want to call it with all the other men she has taken to bed, but it's never been quite like this. Heatwave is bigger, broader, than any of them were, for one. In order to stay sat astride him, Iris has to spread her legs much further than with any of the others, leaving her feeling even more exposed than riding someone already does. Usually in this position she would roll her hips slow, make sensual eye contact with her partner from behind the fall of her hair, but not now. Now, Iris grips Heatwave's waist tight with her knees and uses his body as leverage to work herself up and down on him, arching her back for the perfect angle and incidentally opening up her chest so that he can watch her breasts bounce with every movement. He takes full advantage of their availability and cups one in each hand, gently scraping his thumb nails over her dark nipples. Iris moans helplessly at each pass. Soon, Heatwave starts moving up to meet her, and when he does with every other thrust he lifts Iris bodily up and she loses some of that leverage; she has to work back up her momentum on the next trip down into the cradle of his hips. Her thighs are burning in no time, she's covered in sweat (both her own and some of his), and she can't catch a breath, but it all feels _amazing_. She tosses her hair out of her face so she can see him better, and lets out an unbidden roar of her own. He laughs on the tail of a moan, obviously glad to hear it.

Before long, Iris is making bitten off growls of pleasure with every move, her throat starting to get scratchy and sore. She'd almost be embarrassed, maybe, if she didn't feel so free and good, and if Heatwave wasn't whole-heartedly echoing every sound. His voice has lost its artificial snarling and now it just sounds like that of a normal man, if still especially deep and powerful. Listening to her own voice bouncing back at her off of the high ceiling of the back room of her workplace, Iris somehow also feels both normal and powerful.

Also, tight and hot inside, buzzing warm all over - both deep inside her body where Heatwave is moving with her and in each layer of muscle out - from arousal and exertion. Close. So close.

Heatwave must be able to tell from how Iris moves or how she sounds, because with a rough but playful sounding cackle, he wraps his arms more firmly around her waist and flips them over so he's on top of her again. They've run out of clothing so Iris's back hits the cold floor and she arches up away from it on reflex, making Heatwave moan loudly into her neck where his face is now buried, his buzzed hair and stubble giving her beard burn from her cheek down to her shoulder. He wraps one hand back into her hair, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth to lap eagerly at whatever salt-soaked skin it can reach. Iris tilts her head back into his palm to give him better access, not particularly caring if he leaves a mark. Heatwave's other hand drags slowly from where it's been massaging on of Iris's breasts to the rhythm of their fucking (a wonderful effect), down her torso and belly. Even with the slickness of the sweat on Iris's skin his touch is still heavy and rough with the texture of his calluses and scars, and Iris presses up into the friction and the heat of it gladly.

Those sensations hold true for the thumb that finds its way between her folds to press hard at the hood of her clit, rubbing in tight circles until Iris is crying out and clenching hard around him, putting her manicure to good use getting the skin off his back underneath it. The bright stripes of pain across his shoulders make his rhythm stutter and he moans into Iris's throat again, before he's coming too. His voice as he finishes breaks, and Iris finally feels the heady satisfaction to have single-handedly taken down Heatwave. Flash who?

Heatwave gets his elbows underneath him at either side of Iris's head so that he doesn't have to pull out right away but also doesn't crush her, which is surprisingly considerate of him, but appreciated. He pants hot and wet and open-mouthed against the tender side of her neck that he'd been abusing with beard and teeth moments ago. She feels a drop of cooling sweat drip off of him and onto her shoulder. Gross, definitely, but also pretty sexy.

"Damn, Princess," he says. That stupid growl is back, but it's breathless and a little hoarse, so Iris doesn't mind it at all. "Didn't know you had all that in you." Iris snorts indelicately and lays her hands flat against his chest to push him off. Like always, he goes without a hint of resistance, landing with an exaggerated huff on his back beside her. He removes and ties off the condom and tosses it into the trash can underneath the prep table without looking. Show off. Several moments pass with just them lying there in the mess of their clothes while their sweat dries on their skin, the sound of their labored breathing steadily growing quieter.

Heatwave lights a cigarette as soon as he fully catches his breath, living up to his reputation by getting momentarily distracted by the flame of his lighter before blinking hard and belatedly taking his first drag. Iris frowns, coughs pointedly, waves her hand in front of her nose against the smoke and the smell. He flicks ash in her direction and when she glares he grins. Iris rolls her eyes and gets up, grimacing as she uses a scratchy paper napkin to wipe between her legs. Heatwave watches her and, really weirdly, seems to like what he sees. An arsonist _and_ a pervert, Iris thinks uncharitably, ignoring the part of herself that feels good about his positive attention on her doing something so... unclassy.

The little bell above the door out on the floor jingles and Iris's head snaps around to look in that direction. Her heart skips a beat, but doesn't quite start racing. She jumps into her pants without bothering to locate her panties and is navigating her way into her shirt in not completely uncomfortable silence when Barry's voice calls out with gentle concern, "Hey, Iris?" Iris looks back at Heatwave where he is lounging, utterly relaxed, bare ass on the floor and surrounded by his discarded clothing, leaning back with seemingly unaffected nonchalance on one scarred elbow. He takes another drag from his cigarette and raises his eyebrows, waiting patiently for her to make her decision.

"Iris?" Barry calls again, that concern sounding a little less gentle after having not gotten an answer the first time. Iris sighs roughly, scoops up Heatwave's pants with her foot and kicks them with force into his lap. His unsurprised smirk makes a reappearance when she points a stern finger at him and tells him firmly, "You were never here."

"I'm coming, Barry!" she calls over her shoulder as Heatwave puts his cigarette out on the floor gets back into his clothes at a deliberate leisurely pace, like the huge jerk that he undoubtedly is. She finds her arms folded again, frown in place, and adds to him as threateningly as she can manage while conscious of the fact that he is intimately aware of the fact that she does not have on any underwear, "You better hurry up before I change my mind." After she's said it though, Iris realizes she's only half serious. After all, he sort of did her a favor and he didn't hurt her, paid for his coffee, and she hasn't seen him on the news in months. And maybe her judgement is a little impaired by the rush of endorphins after so long of being nothing but angry and sad all the time. The smirk that hasn't faded from Heatwave's face says he knows.

"You can't take that bag," Iris snaps when he reaches for the paper bag with his chocolate cruller in it. She points at the logo on the bag. "You were never here, remember?" It's half vindictive, just so that she can say she didn't let him win somehow, but also half just because she wants to see what he'll do. He pauses, and then simply meets her eyes with the blandest expression Iris has ever seen as he reaches into the bag, pulls out the pastry, and stuffs the whole thing into his mouth. He salutes her, moving fluid and lazy. Sarcastically, if one can move sarcastically.

"Thanks, Your Highness," he says with his mouth full. He grins at her widely, little pieces of damp donut easily visible. Gross. He turns and pushes his way out the back door of the shop, his movements just as fluid and lazy as before, but significantly less sarcastic. An orgasm with breakfast clearly agrees very well with him. Iris watches his broad back as he goes, thinking to herself with surprisingly little bitterness about how his eyes lit up when he grinned at her just then, about how the stretch of his mouth made his ears stick out a little, and how there's a tiny gap in between his front teeth. Iris still doesn't like him of course, maybe even hates him for who he is and what he's done. But.

Heatwave has a nice smile. A surreal fact, like how he likes hazelnut and chocolate French crullers, but not something loathsome. It's kind of cute.

Boyish.

Iris is reminded of Eddie, but for once her grief seems to be willing to simmer instead of boil inside her. Maybe it's just because she wore herself out, but for now it's okay.

She's going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> look me up on [tumblr](http://redblooded-disadvantage.tumblr.com/) for stale meta n fresh memes


End file.
